Pain
by Winged Knight
Summary: There come times when no matter what one does it just isn't enough. And for some there is no worse pain than that.


Pain

The criminal gave out a little gurgle as the Batman struck his jaw, falling to the ground in a lump. The other three cried out as their friend fell, dropping the bags they'd taken from the bank vault and turning to confront their masked assailant. But he was already moving. Their frantic shots missed him completely as he dashed toward them.

The Batman ducked behind an overturned desk as one of the bank robbers corrected his aim and tried again to gun him down. The bullets chewed through the wood, but all he needed was to stay out of sight for just a second. When he leapt out from behind cover the batarangs were already leaving his hands, flying toward the shooter and one of his allies. They both clutched their wrists in pain and dropped their guns as the flying blades struck true.

And then he was among them, beating them down. They tried to fight back, but the man flowed like water between clumsy haymakers and responded with only just as much force as was needed to lay them out. They crumpled to the floor just like the first one had.

He moved away just in time to avoid the terrified firing of the last bank robber. Zigzagging to keep the young man off focus, he came in close and grabbed the criminal's wrist, twisting it painfully until he dropped the gun. An elbow strike to the nose took the fight out of him quickly enough.

And then the Batman was the only person still standing. The tellers had all sensibly gotten behind cover after they'd opened the vault, though they peaked out now that the noise had stopped. The fearsome vigilante moved to each young man in turn, binding their hands and removing their ski masks so that the police could pick them up without any trouble.

It was the high point of a slow night, really. He'd been patrolling the city while keeping tabs on the police radio. Aside from a few muggers and one car theft, this was the most action he'd found tonight that the police hadn't already taken care of. Insanely quiet for Gotham, but he could appreciate it. Perhaps after so many years he was finally accomplishing some real good in this horrible city?

He paused for a second after removing the mask of the last bank robber, the one whose nose he had broken. It was a kid, barely even eighteen years old. He had brown hair and green eyes, when the boy managed to weakly open them enough to be seen. He had freckles all over his face, forming a haphazard pattern all across his nose and cheeks. There was something familiar about him.

"What's your name?" the Batman asked, pulling the boy close. The young man spat blood in his face as a response.

"What's it to ya, Batfreak?" he growled, or tried to anyway. His voice broke a little, likely as much from his age as from the pain. "I ain't got nothing for ya. Nothing!"

The Batman wiped the blood away with one hand and let the kid drop. He could hear the sirens in the distance, the police coming in response to the silent alarm. He pulled out a grappling line and walked toward the door.

"Yeah, ya better walk away!" the kid yelled, starting to regain his senses now that his endorphins were numbing the pain a little. "Gonna find ya, ya bastard! Gonna cut out ya Goddamn eyes! Ya hear me? Ya gonna pay for this!"

He didn't get a reply as the Batman left the scene, his line pulling him up to the roofs and toward wherever else he was needed.

o\O/o

"What's up with him?" Tim asked Alfred inside Wayne Manor's kitchen. "He's cooped himself up in the Cave for over an hour now."

Alfred gave him a look from where he was preparing Tim's sandwich.

"Not that that isn't normal for him or anything," Tim said quickly. "But he's kicked us out. That hardly ever happens! Unless… You don't think something's got him worried, do you? Some new conspiracy that's got him worked up?"

"No, Master Tim," Alfred said as he handed over the plate with the sandwich. The butler went over to the stove and set a kettle on. The man seemed resigned and sad, which was making Tim even more confused. "I don't believe that's it at all."

"Then what's up with him?"

Alfred sighed as the water came to a boil, shrilling a little as steam escaped the kettle. He turned off the fire and poured the hot water through a strainer covered in tea leaves, the liquid flowing into a large cup.

"This happens occasionally, my boy. Sometimes Master Bruce just needs to set himself apart from everything. For all that is said about him, both the good and the bad, he is still just a man."

Alfred took a sip of his tea and closed his eyes.

"And the constant companion of men is pain."

o\O/o

Bruce Wayne looked at the computer screen dully, eyes tracking over the information for what seemed the hundredth time. He had taken off the cape and cowl hours ago, but had left the rest of the suit on. He hadn't slept or eaten anything since he'd gotten back, and it showed. He was exhausted. His shoulders slumped in his chair, and he had not sat so much as collapsed into his seat.

There was a picture of the criminal who had spat at him on the monitor. Jeremy Collins, eighteen years old from a bad part of the city. He had a list of petty crimes, though his involvement in the bank heist was the most egregious thing he'd done by far. He'd likely get at least five years for his involvement, though ten to fifteen was more likely considering he'd actually pistol-whipped one of the tellers when they hadn't opened the vault fast enough.

His eyes moved toward the sheet of paper he'd set atop the keyboard, carefully laminated to protect it from damage. It was a crude drawing done in crayon of a little boy and his mother, with another of himself just behind them. The boy's face was covered in little dots.

It was a child's drawing. He had gotten hundreds of these over the years as he continued his crusade against the injustices of the world. Grateful children sent pictures and notes to the police, where he eventually picked them up. He kept every one, carefully preserving them and locking them away where they would be safe. It was a reminder that he was making a difference in people's lives.

This particular drawing had writing on it.

_Thank you for saving my mommy Batman,_ the barely legible note said in crayon. A heartfelt thanks from a boy who had almost lost his mother to one of the many hazards that existed within Gotham.

The signature on the picture said "Jeremy."

Bruce shuddered and leaned forward, holding his face in his hands.

He stayed that way for some time.


End file.
